


To Obey the Rule

by ultramarcypan



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultramarcypan/pseuds/ultramarcypan
Summary: There’s an unspoken rule between the two of them, one that both of them take very seriously.





	

There’s an unspoken rule between the two of them. Daryun isn’t sure when they established it or who even came up with it, but he also doesn’t care. The rule is in place and he isn’t a big enough fool to question the small blessings he has left in life.

The rule (which isn’t really a rule, he supposes; it’s a comfort more than anything) only kicks in after a battle. Arslan doesn’t have the stomach or fortitude for violence, bless his tender heart, but fighting is an inevitable part of war and even he can’t escape it completely. Daryun would give his life if it meant that bloodshed would be banished from the world; he’d told Narsus that, once, and the other man had laughed at him though his mirth hadn’t reached his eyes. “Fool,” the painter had called him, brushing his thumb against Daryun’s cheek. “Bloodshed alone isn’t responsible for the miseries of the world.”

“Maybe so,” he’d answered, allowing himself to lean into the touch. “But if it would alleviate some of the suffering of the people I would not hesitated to lay down my life.”

Thinking back, Daryun supposes that it was probably then that the rule was established, likely out of Narsus’ fear that Daryun would try to make good on his ‘foolish idealism’ as he’d called it then.

But regardless, every battle, without fail finds Narsus waiting for him in his tent shortly after the fighting has stopped. The second Daryun steps fully into the tent, letting the flap close behind him, Narsus stands, taking two long strides to stand before him. He’s shorter than Daryun, only by a few inches, but it never seems more apparent than in those moments. With a gentleness that matches his looks (for once, Daryun thinks fondly) Narsus takes his sword hand, bringing it up to rest against his cheek. Daryun never complains, no matter how sore he may be, no matter how much the simple movement may hurt him. Instead, he lets his fingers fan out against soft, pale skin, his thumb tracing Narsus’ jawline tenderly, relishing in the intimate touch.

Narsus, for his part, stays silent, eyes roaming all over Daryun’s bruised and battered body. Vaguely, Daryun remembers in those times that Narsus had once joked that he’d chosen to master the bow over the sword if only so that he’d never have to risk the front lines of combat that could mar his looks. Privately, Daryun thinks there’s some logic to that, though he doesn’t know how much of this can be contributed to his own feelings towards the painter. There’s a stark contrast between the two of them: Daryun, dark and messy with blood and sweat, totally disheveled, and Narsus, still fair faced, suffering only from some windswept hair or dirt on his pants from when he’d knelt to take a shot.

At some point, Narsus finds whatever it is that he’s looking for when he checks Daryun over (deep gashes? New scars? A steady heartbeat? Daryun’s never thought to ask) and it’s only then that he steps forward, pressing himself against Daryun fully. His arms come up to grip at the commander’s shoulders; his face presses into the crook of Daryun’s neck, lips moving in silent prayer. Sometimes, if Daryun cares to focus enough, he can pick out some of the words and phrases that Narsus whispers.

_Thank you, gods_ is one of the most common ones.

Usually, though, Daryun is far too exhausted both mentally and physically to pay much attention to Narsus’ almost silent prayers. Instead, he allows himself to sag against the smaller male, relishing in the warmth, in the quite thumps of their hearts that prove that, somehow, both of them have lived to see another day.

Sometimes, Narus weeps into the crook of his neck, perhaps overcome with the emotion of it all, with the relief that the one he loves still draws breath. Daryun never mentions it; how can he, when he’s come so close himself to being choked up with emotion, with a deep thanks for any and all forces in the world that have let him return safely to Narsus’ arms.

Though Daryun never actually remembers moving from their standing embrace, they always seem to end up on his cot. Narsus curls up around him, tangling their legs together, taking deep, shuddering breaths that Daryun isn’t meant to hear so he ignores them; instead, he wraps his arms securely around the smaller male’s waist, tracing patterns absentmindedly on the others back and thinking of nothing more than the here and now.

Eventually, Narsus calms himself down enough that he feels he can face Daryun properly, and only then does he lift his face from the others shoulder. His eyes are bright and expressive, always so expressive, and Daryun falls a little bit more in love with him every time, reminds himself that Narsus is part of the reason he fights, the reason he would bleed for a world where everyone can be safe. They kiss then, nothing lustful, just a chaste brushing of lips and a reassurance for both of them that is reality before curling closer together to sleep for the night, dreaming of the day when they won’t have to go through with the procedures of their unspoken agreement.

If Narsus whispers ‘I love you’ into the dark and quiet room, than Daryun won’t ever say. It would be a violation of the rule, after all.


End file.
